


Young and Scared

by TheWeepingAngelOfCas



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWeepingAngelOfCas/pseuds/TheWeepingAngelOfCas
Summary: He's 19.He hasn't stopped. He can't. It had made him feel better when he started. Like some sort of sickly sweet high. Yet soon, his usual amount of harm wasn't enough. So he'd do more. He'd go deeper. He enjoyed the look of blood running down his thighs. His arms. He knew it was wrong. Tons of people had almost noticed. It wasn't good for him. Yet he couldn't force himself to stop.***************************TRIGGER WARNING. If this triggers you, please don't read or at least read with caution! Stay safe!





	Young and Scared

**Author's Note:**

> My 2 AM vent from a year or two ago. Originally posted to my DeviantArt.

TW: SELF HARM

*****************

When Will Graham was 13, he took a razor blade, and he sliced up his right thigh. At the time, he hadn't been aware he was doing it. School had been tough that day. His emotions were hard enough to deal with, not mentioning when he could feel everyone else's emotions as well. There were the normal emotions from everyone. The more "popular" boys were dreaming about intercourse. That girl in his general science class was feeling particularly bubbly today. A few boys were feeling fairly angry at their girlfriends, or their parents, or anyone. Yet there was a new girl in his first hour. He could tell what she did to herself, even before he let his mind wander into her perspective. She wore long sleeves, and arm warmers. Her hair was black, her eyes were downcast, her hair was thin. It was obvious, and he knew better than to confront her about it. That never seemed to end well. Her name was Laurie or Lauren or something like that. It got worse when he took her perspective. He had walked to his classes in a daze, not aware of what was happening. He couldn't even describe what she felt. Somewhere along the lines of numb. Empty? His arms stung. When he got home, and got out of his daze, he saw the cuts on his thighs. He liked it. He did it again.

*******************

He's 19. He hasn't stopped. He can't. It had made him feel better when he started. Like some sort of sickly sweet high. Yet soon, his usual amount of harm wasn't enough. So he'd do more. He'd go deeper. He enjoyed the look of blood running down his thighs. His arms. He knew it was wrong. Tons of people had almost noticed. It wasn't good for him. Yet he couldn't force himself to stop. He was starting college. He lived in a dorm with two roommates. It was harder and harder to keep it up without anyone noticing. One of his roommates did notice. His name was Tyler. Tyler came home drunk one night. Will could smell the cheap liquor on his breath. Slurring his words, Will had helped him into his bed. Tyler had tugged on Will's sleeves, rolling them up before Will could stop him. Tyler sobered up once he saw the numerous scars - both old and new. There were probably a few hundred on his arms alone. Tyler hadn't known how to help. So, both of his roommates made him wear short sleeves around the dorm. Yet even then, he couldn't stop himself from doing it again. He made it a full week before cutting deep into his thigh. No one ever noticed.

*****************

He's 25. He's failed the test to become an FBI agent twice. Both times, he's been rejected for instability. He knows there's something wrong with him, now. The self harm. The loss of time. He knows he's unstable now. So, instead of being an agent, he settles on being a teacher. Will's getting better. He cuts less. There's fresh scars less and less often. Yet they're still there. He settles for being okay. Not bad, not good, but okay. Will supposes it's better than he used to be. He should have never started the habit. He used to deny what it was. Say that it was different than everyone else. It's not cutting, he used to tell himself. It makes him feel better. Cutting is bad. If it makes me feel better, it can't be bad. He still has trouble calling it what it is. Some nights, no matter how much he tells himself to stop, he can't help but pick up a blade. Razors, knives, anything. Anything to take the pain away. In the end, he feels guilty. The guilt makes him do it again.

****************

He's 32, and he's met Hannibal Lecter. It's obvious that Hannibal can tell what he's done. Hannibal can probably smell the blood on his arms. Will doesn't dare tell him. He already knows he's a prime candidate for a mental hospital. People finding out about his little addiction would only get him there faster. That's what it is now. An addiction. Hannibal mentions it 5 weeks after starting their... Friendship? Is that the appropriate thing to call it? Yes, friendship. Will had had a particularly bad day, and before driving to Hannibal's office for his appointment, he couldn't help but do a few dangerously deep cuts. Part of him knew he would be caught. Yet that part of him also wanted to be. "Will, may I bring up a sensitive topic?" "Don't you bring up a sensitive topic every time I'm over here?" Will feels bad about sounding so mean, yet he tries to brush it off. "Well, yes, but this one is particularly hard to touch up on." Hannibal leans forward in his seat. Will knows what he's talking about, yet plays dumb anyway, "Go ahead." "Do you want to talk about your self harm problem?" Hannibal's accent gets a little thicker. No. Will's mind screams it to the heavens. He doesn't want to. He wants to run. No. No. No, no, no! "Yes." Hannibal gently grabs his wrist, and raises his eyebrow. "May I?" Will shakily exhales, and let's Hannibal roll up his sleeve. There's too many scars to count. Hannibal runs his finger along them carefully, and Will shivers, holding back tears. The psychiatrist leans down to Will's arm, and kisses one of the most prominent scars as gently as he can. "You're beautiful, Will. Please don't do this to yourself. I'm here for you if you need to talk." Will cries for a long time after that.

******************

He's 33. He's not afraid of his scars anymore. It doesn't hurt him to look at them. Every time he starts to fear them again, Hannibal holds him, kisses him, tells him not to be afraid. He's getting better now. Will's made it to 7 months without relapsing. It's hard. So very hard. Yet he knows that with Hannibal's help, he'll beat his addiction. He knows it.


End file.
